Peter Lindroth 75 - Texter 

Edward Thomas (1878-1917)  

Sowing  

It was a perfect day 

For sowing; just 

As sweet and dry was the ground 

As tobacco-dust.  

I tasted deep the hour 

Between the far 

Owl's chuckling first soft cry 

And the first star.  

A long stretched hour it was; 

Nothing undone 

Remained; the early seeds 

All safely sown.  

And now, hark at the rain, 

Windless and light, 

Half a kiss, half a tear, 

Saying good-night. 

The Bridge  

I have come a long way today: 

On a strange bridge alone, 

Remembering friends, old friends, 

I rest, without smile or moan, 

As they remember me without smile or moan.  

All are behind, the kind 

And the unkind too, no more 

Tonight than a dream. The stream 

Runs softly yet drowns the Past, 

The dark-lit stream has drowned the Future and the Past.  

No traveller has rest more blest 

Than this moment brief between 

Two lives, when the Night's first lights 

And shades hide what has never been, 

Things goodlier, lovelier, dearer, than will be or have been.  

The New House  

Now first, as I shut the door, 

I was alone 

In the new house; and the wind 

Began to moan.  

Old at once was the house, 

And I was old; 

My ears were teased with the dread 

Of what was foretold,  

Nights of storm, days of mist, without end; 

Sad days when the sun 

Shone in vain: old griefs, and griefs 

Not yet begun.  

All was foretold me; naught 

Could I foresee; 

But I learnt how the wind would sound 

After these things should be.  

This Moonlight Makes  

This moonlight makes 

The lovely lovelier 

Than ever before lakes 

And meadows were.  

And yet they are not,  

Though this their hour is, more 

Lovely than things that were not 

Lovely before.  

Nothing on earth, 

And in the heavens no star,  

For pure brightness is worth 

More than that jar,  

For wasps meant, now 

A star - long may it swing 

From the dead apple-bough, 

So glistening.  

Digging  

Today I think 

Only with scents, - scents dead leves yield, 

And bracken, and wild carrot's seed, 

And the square mustard field;  

Odours that rise 

When the spade wounds the roots of tree, 

Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed, 

Rhubarb or celery;  

The smoke's smell, too, 

Flowing from where a bonfire burns 

The dead, the waste, the dangerous, 

And all to sweetness turns.  

It is enough

 To smell, to crumble the dark earth,

 While the robin sings over again 

Sad songs of Autumn mirth.  

Lights Out  

I have come to the borders of sleep,

 The unfathomable deep 

Forest, where all must lose 

Their way, however straight 

Or winding, soon or late; 

They cannot choose.  

Many a road and track 

That since the dawn's first crack 

Up to the forest brink 

Deceived the travellers, 

Suddenly now blurs, 

And in they sink.  

Here love ends – 

Despair, ambition ends;

 All pleasure and all trouble, 

Although most sweet or bitter,  

Here ends, in sleep that is sweeter 

Than tasks most noble.  

There is not any book 

Or face of dearest look  

That I would not turn from now 

To go into the unknown 

I must enter, and leave, alone, 

I know not how. 

 The tall forest towers:

 Its cloudy foliage lowers 

Ahead, shelf above shelf: 

Its silence I hear and obey

That I may lose my way 

And myself.  

Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)

The Send-Off

Down the close, darkening lanes they sang their way

To the siding-shed,

And lined the train with faces grimly gay.

Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray

As men’s are, dead

Dull porters watched them, and a casual tramp

Stood staring hard,

Sorry to miss them from the upland camp.

Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lamp

Winked to the guard.

So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.

They were not ours:

We never heard to which front these were sent.

Nor if they yet mock what women meant

Who gave them flowers.

Shall they return to beatings of great bells

In wild train-loads?

A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,

May creep back, silent, to still village wells

Up half-known roads.

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori. 

The Parable of the Old Man and the Young

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,

And took the fire with him, and a knife.

And as they sojourned both of them together,

Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,

Behold the preparations, fire and iron,

But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?

Then Abram bound the youth with belts ands straps,

And builded parapets and trenches there,

And strethchèd forth the knife to slay his son.

When lo! An angel called him out of heaven,

Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,

Neither do anything to him. Behold,

A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;

Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.

But the old man would not so, but slew his son,

And half the seed of Europé, one by one.

Edward Thomas (1878-1917)

Lights Out  

I have come to the borders of sleep,

 The unfathomable deep 

Forest, where all must lose 

Their way, however straight 

Or winding, soon or late; 

They cannot choose.  

Many a road and track 

That since the dawn's first crack 

Up to the forest brink 

Deceived the travellers, 

Suddenly now blurs, 

And in they sink.  

Here love ends – 

Despair, ambition ends;

 All pleasure and all trouble, 

Although most sweet or bitter,  

Here ends, in sleep that is sweeter 

Than tasks most noble.  

There is not any book 

Or face of dearest look  

That I would not turn from now 

To go into the unknown 

I must enter, and leave, alone, 

I know not how. 

 The tall forest towers:

 Its cloudy foliage lowers 

Ahead, shelf above shelf: 

Its silence I hear and obey

That I may lose my way 

And myself.  

Karl Wolfskehl (1869-1948):

Herr, lasse mich nicht fallen  

Herr, lasse mich nicht fallen, 

Ich kam aus dem Geheg – 

Bin ich auf Deinem Weg? 

Ists bloss, 

dass ich entrinn? 

Es wirft mich her und hin. Wer sagt mir, dass ich bin 

Und bin auf Deinem Weg?  

Noch bebt ein Widerhallen 

Der Abendflöte nach 

Und leis süsser Ruch – 

Doch preis ich den Spruch, 

Doch reiss ich das Tuch: 

Die letzte Schwelle brach. 

Ich geh, nichts lass ich nach.  

Was wars, das mir gefallen, 

Was wars, das nun verging? 

Wem war ich zugestellt 

Im bunten Zelt? 

Zerspellt, entstellt, 

Wie Glas zerspringt die Welt. 

Scherben erklirrn. Ich bring 

Ins land nur meinen Ring.  

Ins Land? Bin ich zum Wallen 

Gerecht nach so viel Irregang?  

Ich sah dich lang.

Ich war die Hand

Ich hielt das Licht

Du sahst Mich nicht, 

Warst doch am Wg, 

im Angesicht.

In Meinem Angesicht.

Du bist,

Ja denn Ich bin!

Du zogst ins Land,

Ich zog dich hin,

Ich liess dich nimmer fallen.

(1934)

Tränen sind der Seele herber Wein

Tränen sind der Seele herber Wein,  

Fliessend aus des Leids uralter Trotte.  

Lauter dann, von Erdentrübe rein,  

Glänzt der Wein, heissts, Spiegel Unserm Gotte.  

Winzer Leid, dich grüss ich, meiner Trauben  

Überschwere Beeren seien dein.  

Herbste! Lang schon gilben meine Lauben:  

Späte Lese bringt den vollsten Wein.   

Dass er kühl in deinen Kellern gärt!  

In der grossen Flut gönn eignen Tiegel  

Meinem Wein, Leid, bis er, ausgeklärt,  

Ganz demanten, wert ist Gottes Spiegel.    

 from Hiob oder die vier Spielgel (1944-47)    

Bertil Pettersson (f. 1932)

Doften av ett minne     

Jag har följt dig 

 i hjärtat, i luften.  

Stundtals ser jag dig  

alltför otydligt.  Så med ens framträder du  

med bländande skärpa.  

Jag lyssnar till  

vårt möte, 

 i handen, i hjärtat.  

Rör du mig rör jag dig. 

 Lyfter jag blicken 

 ser du mig  rätt in i ögonen. 

 Lyfter jag handen  lyfter du din hand. 

 I världen, 

 i mörkret, 

 i tvivlet.  Jag känner doften 

 av ett minne.     

Juni

Kärleken till dig

har inga andra gränser

än dem som finns i mig.

Jag är bunden i en sång

om döden.

Jag är fri som livet

som tvingas in i vårens grönska.

Din kärlek häver sina

lungor i mig.

Jag ser mörkret.

George Herbert (1593-1633)

Bitter-Sweet

My dear angry Lord,

Since thou dost love

Yet strike,

Cast down, 

Yet help afford;

Sure I will do the like:

I will complain,

Yet praise;

I will bewail, 

Approve,

And all my sour-sweet days

I will lament,

And love.

Virtue  

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,

 The bridal of the earth and sky; 

The dew shall weep thy fall tonight, 

For thou must die.  

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave 

Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye: 

thy root is ever in its grave, 

And thou must die.  

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, 

A box where sweets compacted lie: 

My music shows ye have your closes, 

And all must die.  

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,  

Like seasoned timber never gives; 

But though the whole world turns to coal,  

Then chiefly lives.